Forest Nights
by Foxy neko-boi Tavisu
Summary: An alternate realm of Digimon


"Hello?" the youth called out. He had been wandering the worn paths through the woods for hours. "Is anyone there?"

He had been walking through the park earlier that bay when suddenly, all sounds went quiet. No voices could be heard anywhere, no birds or crickets chirping. Not even the sound of a river or wind cutting through the trees. It was as though he was suddenly the only living thing in the entire area. He began running between the trees with only his breath and the pounding of his feet to drown-out the silence.

He ran for as long as his legs would carry him, his breath growing long and deep before slowing to a stop. With his left hand, he leaned against a darkened tree; with his right, he tried to hold his weakened torso up, his whole body ready to fold under him as he tried to catch his breath. Seconds later, he fell to his knees, a hand still on the tree and a hand now on the ground as he tried to catch his breath. But it seemed like he was loosing more and more breath as he tried to regain his strength.

He pulled himself up on the tree, both arms wrapping partially around the large foliage to hold him up. He started to walk, arms pushing against the trunk of the tree to hold him up as he took two steps. When came the third, his leg buckled under him and he fell to the ground. Crashing on his stomach, his arms went forward to defend his face from rocky shrapnel below him. He lay there for a moment, his face hidden behind out-reached arms, before lifting his head. He had a few scraps on him, a red cut reaching along his left cheek to his chin with small bit of blood trickling along the groove left, possibly from a rock or a small scrap-of-a branch.

He managed to sit-up against the tree with some effort. His arms had cuts all along his forearms, but none as long as the one on his face. He was covered in patches of dirt from head to toe. Patches of mud on his knee and his shirt told him that either it had rained recently in the area or he was wandering into a swamp. He rested there a few minutes, his head leaning back against the tree as his right hand used the bandanna around his neck to wipe the blood and dirt from his face. At least, that is what he tried to do, but smeared most of the dirt across his face. Once he felt his face was clean, he released the bandanna, letting it hang from his neck once more.

He was still short of breath. It felt like his lungs were collapsing. His breath escaped him in great, painful gasps; his face showed every ounce of pain. He wanted to yell-out, he tried to yell out, but yelling would take breath that he didn't have. And each second felt as though he had less and less breathe. No more then a minute later, he passed-out, his body tilted left and fell off the tree, leaving him unconscious on the ground where he remained for moments of time.

When he awoke, he was covered in sweat. Or was it dew? The temperature did seem to have dropped since he passed-out. And in this dark forest, there wasn't any way to tell even what time it was. He sat-up, wiping the wetness from his brow with the back of his hand, then the back of his hand on the side of his shirt.

Suddenly, he remembered where he was; least what he knew. He sat-up quickly and was rewarded with a sharp pain that shot through his body. He dropped back to the ground with a gasp of pain.

"Damn it all!" he shouted as the pain raced down his legs. The seconds it took for the pain to pass seemed like minutes, hours, days were passing slowly. Once the pain had passed, he waited a few moments before trying to stand again.

Slowly, he clawed his way up the tree enough for him to move his legs under him. He rested a moment before trying again. Clutching at whatever he could on the tree, he slowly pulled himself off the ground and onto his feet. This time the pain was nothing more then a short, pulsing pain in his head that lasted just a few seconds. His right hand reached for the throbbing lobe, laying mud-covered digits over the skin and hair and rubbing his cranium where the pain came from for a few seconds before looking around. He couldn't remember anything more then being lost in this forest before he passed out. He didn't even know why he passed out; he wasn't having trouble breathing now. He looked around the trees, trying to find some idea of where he was, where he came from, if anyone was even around.

He couldn't tell one direction from another, whether one way was coming or another was going. But there was something that stood-out that he hadn't noticed before: a small, weather-worn statue sitting in the middle of a path jutting-off from the path he was currently on. He slowly walked closer to get a better look.

Slowly he took his steps, leaning on the trees as he made his way the small figure. He stumbled once, landing against another tree, eyes clinched tight. When he opened them, he found himself close enough to see more detail on the small, carved stone.

It was a Lawn Gnome!

"What would a Lawn Gnome be doing here?" he asked no one.

Then a light appeared further down the path, just suddenly blinking on.

He followed the light, closer and closer. The light grew brighter and bigger as he approached until he found himself in a clearing. Forgetting the light a moment, he looked around the clearing; it seemed like something done by a human.

Something alive. A human no less!

That thought returned his attention to the light. The light came from a torch-looking object hanging next to what looked like a door. A house door, with a wire-mesh screen, glass panels that slide and one of those stupid door-hanging signs that old women hang. But what where the two doing here?

Just then, the door opened, and from the shadows, emerged the old bat herself, holding a broom in the middle of its handle sort of like a bat. A big over-sized bat holding a misshaped bat with a wide end and a long grip. She carefully peered through the mesh, squinting through aged lenses perched on her nose. She looked for a few seconds before: "G-g-ge-t ou-ou-tta h-h-h-h-here, you... you..." and with that she ducked back into the house quickly.

The boy could only assume she was talking to him, but finding someone in these dark woods; that meant that he wasn't alone, that there had to be others somewhere. He wandered around the edge of what seemed to be the yard to the front of the house, the whole while; he could feel the old lady watching him from inside.

The front of the yard opened to a whole row of houses, some similar to the one now behind him, and some with lights on in front. And there where paths of solid stone. Concrete.

He began walking down the stone-slab walk, passing several houses that, for some reason, he felt he knew. He pointed vaguely at a house across the road, closed his eyes tight and said: "Anderson." He pointed at another, eyes still closed: "Yuki." Another: "Mitsuko." A fourth: "Heriman."

He continued pointing and naming seven houses standing in the middle of the side walk. He pointed at a total of ten houses, and each had a name to it.

"Why do I know these names?" he asked aloud, hands clinching tight to his head. Several of the houses had names affixed to the mailboxes out front, too small to read from his distance, but a closer look and the name matched one that he listed, even matching to the one he pointed at.

He ran down the street, feet pounding on the pavement and echoing off the houses. He wanted to scream, scream out with rage, anger and confusion, but he couldn't find his voice. All he could do was run. And run he did. He ran down the street, past house-after-house. He passed through intersections of streets named after trees, people, random names that made no sense. The names echoed in his head. Then the houses gave-way to stores, small family-owned stores without chains of business reaching from their roots. Corporate branches lie along the road, spaced by the smaller buildings. Although dwarfing the others, the larger buildings were far out-numbered compared to the smaller ones.

He thought the names would stop when he left the houses behind. They did. But a few feet later, more names kept popping into his head, and each a different voice.

"Gghhhhhhh... WHY WON'T THEY STOP!?" he screamed out into the dark expanses. He reply came in barks and yowls from stray animals and pets out for the night. But with animal calls, his mind cleared. No longer was his mind clouded with voices calling names. One voice was left calling the same name. It lingered in his head for a few minutes before it faded away.

It was then that he realized: This was where he lived, where he had grown-up. He walked back up the streets, the names no longer playing in his head. He crossed through several intersections, but he found what he was looking for: His own house. It was late at night, but he could only guess how late. There were no lights on, but there was an open window on the ground level. He climbed in, trying hard not to make a sound as he snuck up to his room. Halfway through the hall, however, he ran into his little sister. She was only seven years old, but she could be more mature then other kids her age at times.

"What are you doing up?" she asked him in an almost childish parody.

"I should be asking you the same thing," he countered.

"I had a/to /couldn't sleep." (Or substitute what ever excuse seems appropriate, or just skip these lines and do actions only)

"Well you better get to bed before mom and dad wake-up," and he followed her upstairs, leaving her at the door as he watched her enter and disappear under her covers, leaving when he saw her eyes peek-out at him. He headed down the hall the room at the end, the open door waiting for him. The other side of the doorway was the image of boy's room his age. He was fourteen and everything in his room showed it; from his bat and ball near the door; to his action figures scattered around the room, lining shelves and boxed under his bed; piles of comics scattered to the four corners of his room and everywhere in between. He, himself, was also the likely-hood of a the average child of his age, wearing a shirt of pure blue with nothing more then a simple shape on it's front and cargo pants, a muddy-brown. He had completely forgotten his experience in the forest, though from the time and his running earlier, he wasn't tired. Even so, he staggered to the bed and flopped-down on his stomach, then rolled-over onto his back and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like half-an-hour, watching the lights from the few cars that passed move across it, before he finally drifted-off.

All through his sleep, he had strange dreams that seemed to skip past parts, or repeat others, like a broken record. Just when a scene came to an important point, it would skip to another scene. A mix-mesh of scenes played in his mind: a parody of horror, fiction, romance. Each shown in it's own style: childish cartoons, dark horror...the list went on. Each scene was chopped and pasted together in an odd, twisted medley of amateur editation. He tossed and he turned all while he slept. He slept long into the morning before waking, light shining on his face. He winced and tried to turn-over away from the light. He was very tired from being up so late and didn't want light to bother his sleep, and at the moment, last night was the furthest thing on his mind. The top of the list was sleeping, and it seemed like he would continue to after tossing around for a few minutes when a poking came in his side.

Poke. Poke.

Nothing.

He started to drift-off again when the poking returned.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

It stopped.

He was ready for it to begin again, expecting it to occur again , but it didn't for several moments.

He began to settle-in when the poking returned once more. Angry that he wasn't being allowed to sleep, he roared-out at the poker.

"STOP POKING ME. LET ME SLEEP!!"

He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow.

"But it's almost noon," came the reply.

"Then what are you doing home?"

"It's the weekend."

"No it isn't. It's only Thursday," he said lazily

"It is so the weekend. It's the sixteenth of October. That makes it a weekend," in child-like anger.

"It is not the sixteenth. It's not even October yet. It's still June," he retorted, now becoming annoyed.

"June was months ago. Where have you been?" she questioned sarcastically.

"Question is: Where have you been? It is not October."

"I'm telling you: IT IS."

And with that, she turned on the toes of her left, sock-covered foot, kicked her right leg out like a march and left his room.

"Stupid sister," he mumbled to himself before climbing out of bed.

He was still covered in mud from the fall, leading him to the bathroom to wash it off.

CENSORED

YOU AREN'T ALLOWED IN THE BATHROOM WITH HIM

Even after washing, he still found dark patches on his skin in spots, but he was too tired to give attention to it.

He staggered out of the bathroom, stretching his arms over his head in a big yawn. He followed the hall to the stairs, and clutching the rail in his right hand, made his way down and into the kitchen.


End file.
